The Cure for What Ails You
by AnotherSongAnotherMile
Summary: The arena didn't kill him. Only the desolation of his life could do that. Written for Prompts in Panem. Major character death/suicide. Glaring typos fixed.


**The Cure for What Ails You**

******Summary:** The arena didn't kill him. Only the desolation of his life could do that.

**Visual prompt: Haymitch's Liqour **

******Triggers: Character death, Suicide**

He stares at the brown bottle in his grip, wondering how his life ever came to this. Nothing for Peeta Mellark was ever perfect, but somehow he had still managed to find that content place between despair and happiness.

He had good friends, enough to eat, and a family who—for the most part—loved him.

He should have been happy to still be alive. He'd almost died several times in that arena. In fact, the moment he stepped onto that train—before the Games had even begun—he was certain he'd never see Twelve again.

Haymitch Abernathy had once told him that winning the Games had destroyed his life; that he wished he would've died in the arena as opposed to being crowned victor and being showered with all the riches that people in the districts had never been accustomed too.

Looking back on the past few weeks, now Peeta understood.

* * *

He holds her smaller hand in his with the promises of a new beginning. Even after the horrors of the arena, his life seems too good to be true. She cares about him—_really _cares about him—enough to risk her own life to save his own. Together they'd won the Hunger Games, a feat that weeks ago seemed impossible.

What would his mother think of him now? He ponders this question to himself as he and Katniss walk together along the railroad tracks somewhere between the Captiol and District 12. He only allows her hand to stray from his own so that he can bend down to pick her a bouquet of wildflowers.

Even his mother could be proud of his accomplishments.

* * *

Things take a turn for the worse after his realization of what _really _saved him from his demise in that arena.

The moment she admitted that she wasn't sure what it all meant to her—that she was too focused on getting them both out alive to contemplate her feelings for him—his entire being seemed to spiral out of control.

They meet the citizens of 12 at the station that day. The smiles, the cheers, the screams, and the familiar faces he never thought he'd see again welcome him home. His brothers hug him right there on the platform the the train station. His father kisses his cheek and ruffles his hair.

And then his mother steps up to him with that familiar look of detest in her eye and slaps him harshly across the face in front of everyone, including _her._

Katniss looks appalled, but Gale and Prim are already dragging her away before she can even respond.

"We're your family," his mother sneers. "You don't speak those things in public, let alone for the entire nation of Panem to watch over their television sets."

Things between his parents are tense after that. Even Father, who was always so gentle and loving, does his best to avoid his youngest son over the next few days. Peeta can't blame him. His father's former affections towards June Everdeen are still very much a sore topic for his mother, even after 20 years of marriage.

* * *

He accepts the keys to his new house in Victor's Village at the Justice Building, dragging along a lone duffel bag full of his old clothing. The new house is too big, too cold, and much too empty for his liking. He thinks it strange how much he misses the old run-down bakery right now and all the chores that go along with running it.

He unpacks his bag in the master bedroom that was meant to be his parent's. Rye and Blake would have liked it here, he thinks to himself. If they would have had a chance to, that is.

* * *

He sees her every morning when she cuts through his yard to check the snare line, even though she doesn't need to hunt now_. _He knows why she still does it—for her best friend who still has too many mouths to tries not to let himself think about how much time she spends helping Gale Hawthorne and the fact she hasn't even spoken to him in over two weeks. It's not entirely her fault; he'd been avoiding her like the plague these days.

It hurts to much to pretend that everything's okay when obviously it isn't.

Now he thinks it's ridiculous all the times he imagined her here, with him, living in this house together. Awhile ago it wasn't such an unfathomable thought.

Was it so silly that, during those last days of the Games that they spent in the cave, he imagined proposing to her?

It didn't at the time, but now when he thinks about it, he kneads the dough he's preparing a little more roughly.

He pulls shut every curtain in his house that night before she can cross back through his yard on the way to her house.

He doesn't need to be reminded about what could have been.

* * *

He takes the pills to help him sleep. He doesn't need them—not really. Even with the nightmares, he gets more than the adequate amount of sleep required every night. Maybe a part of him just wants to sleep the rest of his life away so that he doesn't have to deal with the pain.

There's too much time in a day to fill with anything other than thoughts of _her._

He bakes.

He paints.

But nothing seems enough to keep his mind busy, or to numb the agonizing pain he feels when he remembers how things were before the Games.

Would he have given up those few days he spent thinking that Katniss might actually love him back if it meant his life wouldn't have turned out this way?

Maybe, he thinks to himself.

The timer on the oven rings, and he takes another couple of pills before he sets out to bring a loaf of bread to Haymitch.

* * *

Six sleeping pills later, Peeta sits staring at the half-empty bottle of liquor he'd snagged from Haymitch's house. It burns is throat, and he can feel his stomach rolling at the feeling of the vile drink combining with the pills in his stomach.

That night he lies paralyzed and hopeless on the cold floor with his prosthetic leg entangled in the legs of his kitchen chair. He stares up at the brown bottle that sits knocked over on it's side on the top of his kitchen table as it slowly glugs, emptying it's remaining contents onto the shiny linoleum floor of his brand new house. The world is spinning above him as it slowly begins to fade away.

He doesn't remember Haymitch pushing through his door to check on him the next morning after he'd found his last bottle of Capitol-shipped whiskey missing from his counter. He doesn't remember Mrs. Everdeen checking for his pulse, or Prim looking grimly down on him as her mother tries to resuscitate him. He doesn't even remember Katniss' screams when her mother tells her there's nothing more she can do. Or how the gray eyes of the girl he loves fill with tears when she leans over to slap his cheeks in an effort to wake him, pleading desperately with him not to leave her.

The one thing that he can remember in his last moments, the only thing that soothes him into the world of the departed, are those few days in the arena when his life still felt like something worth living.


End file.
